“Faith, I’m sittin’ on the flure,” said Mr Murphy, with an ape-like grin. Then, like a flash, he flung himself forward, seized Mr Fanshawe by the foot, and next moment the two men were struggling in a life-and-death embrace. “Hit him a belt on the head wid the hammer!” cried Patsy. “Have at him, Larry, or he’ll be murdherin’ the masther.” “Don’t hit, don’t hit,” cried Dicky, “I’ve got him under!” He had, in fact, got a knee on either arm of his opponent, and Mr Murphy, helpless as a baby, lay on the flat of his back staring up at his captor panting, and with a grin on his broad, red face. “Now, you bounder,” cried Dicky, “what do you mean—eh!” “Aisy, aisy!” gasped the recumbent one. “I gives in—sure, I was only makin’ a thry.” “Which is the better man?” asked Dick. “You, is, begorra!” cried Mr Murphy, with a genuine ring in his tone. “Let me up on me pins, and I’ll go aisy, but don’t be bindin’ me, or I’ll tear the house down.” “Up you get,” said Dicky. “You know you have no chance with me, so I won’t bind you.” “Faith, and I knew I was daelin’ wid a gintleman,” said the other, standing up and shaking himself. “Glory be to God, who’s this?” It was General Grampound at the door in a dressing-gown. He held a flat candlestick in his hand; behind him, old James, the butler, and Uncle Molyneux appeared like shades. “What’s all this?” cried the General. “What’s this infernal row? Why, God bless my soul, sir, do you know in whose house you are? Who’s that ruffian? What’s the groom doing here? What’s that rope?” “Who’s the ould gintleman, Larry?” asked Mr Murphy, looking the strange figure of the General up and down in an interested manner. “If you ask me one question at a time,” said Dicky, to whom all the General’s questions had been addressed, “I may be able to answer you. This is a burglar I have just caught—I caught him with that rope, and the infernal row, as you call it, was made by him.” “Then what the devil are you doing with him?” cried General Grampound. “Why don’t you bind him, eh? Why haven’t you sent for the police?” “Oh don’t bother,” cried Dicky, “I’ve caught him when you were all snoring in bed, asleep, and now you come down abusing me, and asking questions. He’s mine, and I’ll do jolly well what I like with him. Here, Murphy, or whatever your name is, come along. Patsy, lead the way to the potato room; you said there were bars to the windows of it, we’ll lock him up there.” “Do you mean to tell me you are not going to take the precaution to tie the ruffian’s hands?” cried General Grampound. “Listen to the ould cuckatoo!” cried Mr Murphy. “Shut up!” said Dicky. “Go before me. Patsy, lead the way.” He caught Mr Murphy by the arm and pushed him along protesting. Larry Lyburn and old James followed to help in the incarceration, and Uncle Molyneux and the General retired upstairs to quiet the women folk—the General, like Mr Murphy, protesting.